


In this Life and the Next

by TaeAelin



Series: Tristan and Galahad [2]
Category: Hannigram AU- Fandom, King Arthur (2004), Tristhad - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Legends, M/M, Misunderstandings, New Relationship, Pre-Canon, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6622144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaeAelin/pseuds/TaeAelin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day that follows Tristan and Galahad’s first evening together, Galahad is distraught at the prospect that his love may be unrequited after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In this Life and the Next

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have a lot of silly feelings that have kind of overspilled from Tristhad Week, which I thought I’d just leave here in a couple of tiny things!

The thunder bristled at Galahad’s eardrums, the sort of wrath that struck once in a season, even with such tempestuous gods as theirs. How long it had been since they dozed off, Tristan wrapped warm and heavy across his chest, he didn’t know. The scout certainly wasn’t there now. Nor, for that matter, was Galahad.

He sat up in alarm, terror curdling through his veins. A welt of pain uncoiled within his stomach, claws stretching from the mark of the Woad arrow, closing around his throat. He was no longer in his bedchamber, nor anywhere near the inn at all. He recognised the campsite, cloaked by pine trees and shrouded in ice, the smouldering fire where he had once seen Tristan take measure of them. The enemy. And he recognised the painted man, eyes dark and infinite as the mangled sky above, flashing in echo with every streak of lightning.

“No,” Galahad spluttered, the air cold and vacant in his lungs. He stumbled to his feet. “No, no, oh gods, what foul devices have brought me here!”

He slipped on the snow, his bare feet raw and stinging. He was clothed in nothing but his thin woollen tunic, which Tristan had shuffled over his body as he’d yawned and shivered several hours earlier. Their mingled seeds had dried sticky across his belly, pulling tight against the fine trace of hair with each twist of his abdomen. Here in the middle of the woods, it all felt like several lifetimes ago.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” the Woad answered. His voice was both harsh and rich, as commanding and reassuring as that of their own leader. “Nor does any friend of Artorius Castus.”

“Is this because I just slept with Tristan?” Galahad wailed, his nose numb and running to his lip. “He’s the one you want to give these unnatural midnight messages to! Spontaneous sightseeing is Tristan’s bag! I’m the one likely to leap out of the bushes and get stuck with an arrow, remember?”

If Merlin was amused, it were hardly much different to his _sorcerer-from-another-world_ face.

“Galahad,” he said, as soft as one could manage over the howling of a snowstorm. “I did not call you here. You came yourself.”

“What?” Galahad shouted, clutching his arms feverishly around the prickled skin at his sides. “Why? Why, by all the forces of earth and Olympus, would I wish to do such a thing?”

Merlin looked to be fading beneath the roar of the mist, a sight hardly less disconcerting than his appearance in the first place.

“That,” Merlin called, his voice foggy and drowned. “Is what you may come to know and share with me.”

“By Jupiter’s beard, I will not!” Galahad bellowed into the shadows, hands clutched so tightly that his fingernails near cut into his palms. “You can be damn sure of it!”

Tristan blinked back at him, hair tousled over half-closed eyes.

“Galahad?” He murmured, voice still coarse with sleep. He raised a heavy hand to rub between Galahad’s shoulder blades. “Everything alright?”

Startled to his senses, Galahad found himself turned into his sleeve, coughing as if the very hands of the gods were reaching down his windpipe. Tristan mumbled something in another language, patting him in a manner toward gentle before reaching for his water skin.

“Yes. Apologies,” Galahad croaked, gulping air like he’d never draw it again. “Forgive me. Yelling bloody murder isn’t the wake-up call I hoped to give you for laying the night in my bedchamber.”

Tristan made a low click below his tongue, some version of shooing the words away. Whilst Galahad felt cold enough that he might’ve been outside after all, the other had slept in nothing and still ran hotter than a spring. He pulled Galahad against his chest, nuzzling into the smaller knight’s neck as his ear pressed into Tristan’s heartbeat.

“In that case, I may just have to wake here again.”

Galahad gave a husky laugh. As utterly ridiculous as he felt, he was hardly ungrateful for Tristan’s touch. Rather, he wished he had the words to explain just how much Tristan staying _did_ mean to him, and that he almost wished the sun would never rise to see him leave. He wrapped his arms around Tristan’s back instead, breathing into the scars that licked across his skin. Tristan’s chest-hair was rough and spindly at once, a sensation he’d never thought to feel scratching his cheeks. Lulled back towards rest, he nudged a kiss below the softer gouge at Tristan’s throat, the point you should always aim for in a fistfight. Tristan gave a pleasant growl, entwining himself over Galahad firm enough that they hardly needed the blanket. But, just in case, Galahad tucked it back around them anyway.

-

When Galahad awoke a few hours later, there was neither sorcerer nor scout to account for any remotely unusual events taking place that night at all. The clothes that he remembered being ripped from his person were folded neatly on the windowsill, Tristan’s boots and oilskins nowhere to be seen. As much as he understood Tristan might not want to emerge from his doorway in view of the whole company, Galahad still couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

It was a feeling that only grew as the morning wove to afternoon, Tristan hardly speaking a word to him throughout their ride to the capital. Granted, he’d never so far lent himself to idle chit chat in all the time Galahad had known him, but, in all that time, neither had they been intimate. Worse than intimate, in fact, for Galahad knew he’d clung to the man like he’d never let go, more spoken between their eyes and halted breaths than admitted even to himself. Perhaps it were all too clear Tristan was the only knight-the only _person_ \- he had ever lain with, and his remaining for any length of time at all were simply common decency.

Galahad felt his cheeks flush warm at the thought. No. After so many years, he was ashamed to even consider Tristan so shallow. His inexperience, if he wanted to give name to it, was surely no revelation to the man he had travelled the whole of the Roman Empire with. Never had Galahad offered match to one of Bors or Dagonet’s bawdy tales, nor been seen whisking a barmaid or merchant’s daughter around the tavern dancefloor. Galahad frowned. Now that he came to think of it, he couldn’t recall an occasion where Tristan had either.

“Plotting your response to Pelagius’s latest treatises?” Gawain winked, trotting his gelding up to Galahad’s side.

“Hah. Not one the senate would see fit to seal.” Galahad couldn’t help a smile, realising his face looked ready to summon the storm of last night by force of will alone.

“Perhaps a companion piece to Lancelot’s fabled book of verse then,” Gawain raised his voice, darting a smirk over his shoulder. Lancelot, who had somehow mastered the art of inking a scroll, directing his horse, and finishing a loaf of olive-bread all at once, merely raised a hand in salute.

“Gods no, spare me the suggestion,” Galahad chuckled, the tightness at his chest easing at his friend’s effort to cheer him. It was unlikely Gawain guessed the cause of his dampened mood. They had however, been friends for a very long time, which meant, if he by any chance _had_ …

Gawain knew better than to ask.

They crossed the Appian Way well ahead of sundown, and without foe nor rogue to slow their passage, found themselves disarming at the Aurelian Walls before the last light had leaked from the sky. Despite his distaste for bloodshed and all that came hand in hand, Galahad had never quite found himself comfortable being stripped of all weapons prior to stepping foot upon the hills of Rome. It was a law that applied even to the army of Caesar himself, for the safety of the politicians as much as the pope. Too often had commanders forgotten that they served the people and the senate, not their personal ambition.

Tristan, by contrast, looked nothing but relieved to walk without sword and shield through the city gates. Neither soldier nor thief stood much of a chance whether the scout was armed or not, his bare hands more lethal than any beggar’s knife. Then again, Galahad very much doubted the Romans on duty had found even half of Tristan’s knives, and that were only including those about his person.

“We make lodging at the garrison,” Arthur said lightly, unable to withhold a smile as this garnered several looks of surprise, and a whoop of approval from Bors. While sparsely furnished, the garrison had been their home for a significant portion of the group’s military training, and was as close to nostalgic as anything within Roman walls could get.

“Which means you meet with Pelagius,” Galahad said softly, not missing the significance of the decision. Arthur often sought out his former teacher on their visits to the capital, though more and more often found him sent away on long errands, or made unreachable through various assignments prescribed by the church. Their last stay at the garrison had proved an unlikely opportunity for Arthur and Pelagius to cross paths unobserved- the disused Sarmatian training ground was hardly a location any up-and-coming noble wished to be seen, no matter how practical the reason. Whilst a military blade couldn’t kill within Rome, rumour most certainly could.

“I did receive word from him, back in Calais,” Arthur admitted, rueful. “Though the message came through strange means. An errand boy, claiming to be the son of a streetseller. Pelagius has never before asked a child to travel between cities.” Arthur sighed, his brow furrowing at the memory. “Perhaps he were older than he looked.”

“Who else would know of your correspondence?” Gawain frowned. Galahad did not think he sounded convinced. “And there is no law against asking learned philosophers for advice. What harm could come of such an exchange?”

“What harm indeed,” Arthur murmured, seemingly more to himself than his companions. “What harm.”

-

For all the feeling that sang through his chest at the sight of his old bunkbed, the stall was also just as cramped as he remembered, and Galahad had grown no shorter over the years. Gawain was already dead to the world in the bunk opposite, arms and legs hanging over the edges in the manner of his youth, just as oblivious to the hard, dank, and creak of the wood as he had ever been.

Galahad could still hear Bors and Dagonet’s famous duet roaring above laughter from the tavern next door. And, with creeping embarrassment, it was halfway between the singing and the snoring that Galahad finally allowed the realisation to sink in. Whatever passion had been born from the anger and admissions of the evenings previous had been only that- passion. There was no more closeness between himself and Tristan than what necessarily came from a life spent in journey together. And now, like the adults and warriors that they were, they could simply accept that such incidents were not unusual among men on the road, and could be put behind them with just as little ceremony.

Except, at that moment, Galahad didn’t feel like an adult. Squashed into a bed that made an adolescent look like an overgrown beast, he felt near ready to burst into tears. Snoring to raise Somnus from the underworld, it was probably only Gawain’s presence that had prevented him from doing so thus far, though Bors and Dagonet’s sense of keeping to a tune was just as likely evening the scale. He hadn’t seen Tristan since they had stabled the horses, and what hopes Galahad held of smoothing their friendship with a casual jest over dinner were swiftly dashed as his companion failed even then to show up.

Untangling himself from the bedsheets, Galahad wondered why he bothered undressing for sleep these days, so frequently he found himself doing nothing but. With the capital running warmer than the countryside, Galahad didn't trouble with the extent of his layers, skirt and boots sufficient for decency should any of his companions stagger past with a lady. Slipping from the eastern quarter, his steps took him in the direction of the archery range without instruction, so often had he tiptoed the same route to practice as a squire. On a whim, he tested the door to the equipment shed, surprised to find it unlocked. Granted, the bows in stock were stiff enough to plough a field, the arrows crooked enough to reap one, but security was hardly lax around the garrison, unmanned or not.

Selecting the least volatile of the tack, Galahad marched around the corner with the sort of determination that only came from having all hope snatched from under you, then shot back through your middle. Tears streaming down his face, he strung the first of the arrows, letting instinct guide him when his vision blurred beyond repair. Pulling taut until he could feel the sight aligned in his fingers, he released the bow with a soft _twang_ sound, closing his eyes as the shaft cut through the air and landed with a muffled thud at the centre of the target. Galahad almost sobbed out loud when he squinted to see it. Of course it was easy _now_ \- he was used to shooting moving targets whilst galloping on horseback. But that had hardly been the case when he had first stood in that very spot, and would never, _ever_ have been were it not for Tristan, joining him night after night, aim after aim…

“Galahad?”

The voice nearly choked him in surprise, horror quickly setting in as he realised how ludicrous he must look, half-naked and crying his eyes out, with a quiver of arrows and the most godawful bow a knight could ever hope to hold clutched in his arms.

“Thought I could use a few extra rounds after today’s lesson,” Galahad tried not to sound so appallingly desolate as he attempted the joke. “I’ll be knighted for all the wrong reasons if I’m more likely to take out our instructor than the bullseye.”

It nearly broke his heart to see Tristan’s concern softly twitch to recollection, the statement being one Galahad had used some sixteen years earlier. Fondness pulling up at his lip, Tristan moved to take the bow, tugging back at the string and fixing it with a practice arrow of his own.

“Well, you could start by actually looking where you want to hit. Instead of at the person next to you.”

"That... might be where I want to hit." Galahad sniffled with laughter, having not quite remembered how the exchange had gone until that moment. For all his relief that Tristan seemed no less comfortable around him, Galahad couldn’t stop his face from crumpling with feeling, both for the strength of their friendship and the weight of everything lost. Gently, Tristan placed down the bow, tucking his arms around Galahad instead and holding firm.

“I'm alright,” Galahad heard his voice crack halfway through. “I’m fine. I’m just so happy to see our old training grounds!”

Tristan snorted with laughter, wrapping his arms even tighter.

“You swore more in training than most in battle. Now. Please,” he looked down, kissed Galahad’s forehead, then squeezed so snugly that Galahad could barely inhale. “Tell me what this is.”

“Me being exhausted, in all likelihood,” Galahad confessed, his eyes stinging and rough against Tristan’s tunic. “And vain and egotistical. In thinking… there was something.”

When Tristan flinched back in surprise, Galahad couldn’t help but grin himself, feeling very much like he was quoting one of Lancelot’s more melancholic poems.

“Don’t worry.” Galahad already felt a good deal better for having spoken honestly, despite it hardly being his most elegant moment. “I just needed to get it out of my system. You’ll hear no more about it tomorrow, on my honour.”

“I most certainly hope not.” Tristan gripped his hand, stricken.

“You won’t,” Galahad swallowed, smiling at the familiar bluntness and knowing it were not intended unkindly. “Your friendship alone is more than enough.”

Tristan stared unwavering, then, still clutching the smaller hand with enough force that Galahad wondered if he might require a splint by the end, slowly brought their palms to rest against his chest.

“I am not so gifted with words…” Tristan started, silencing Galahad with a sharp glare when he could see he was about to be interrupted. “What have I done… or not done… to make you think this of me?”

Galahad realised he was trembling. The spot where his thumb rested at the centre of Tristan’s ribcage almost burned at the significance of the gesture.

“If you have taken my departure from your bedchamber as some sign…” Tristan flinched his mouth in displeasure, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the very thought. “Forgive me. I was unsure how you would wish me to treat you in the presence of our company, and being known to have spent the night…” vehemently, he brought Galahad’s hand to rest at his mouth instead, kissing roughly at the back of it, “…would have made the decision for you.”

Having already regained an ounce of his composure, Galahad now found he were no longer breathing, the gaps between his earlier assumptions suddenly seeming all the wider.

“To be clear,” Tristan knelt before him, eyes hard and fierce as ever, “I have loved you since the first, Galahad. I have loved you for an age. And I will love you for another as we travel through this life, and all those beyond it.”

“Oh dear gods,” Galahad choked, his voice breaking at the first syllable. As Tristan warmed to a smile, he spluttered with something close to a laugh, ever more leaky for the effort. “Just when I thought I was done!”

This time, Tristan laughed in return, refusing to get to his feet when Galahad attempted to raise him. Not truly unhappy for the fact, Galahad lowered himself to his knees too, taking Tristan’s free hand and weaving their calloused fingers to a knot.

“For someone who claims not to be good with words…”

“Well,” Tristan measured, grazing another slow kiss between Galahad’s knuckles, “I admit. I did have several years to work on it.”

Galahad managed to regather himself enough for a withering look, which only made the creases around Tristan’s eyes deepen.

“Ugh. How is it possible I have not known this before?”

Finally leaning close enough to kiss the tears from Galahad’s eyelashes, Tristan gave a low hum, considering.

“Deeds of the hand never pass as we expect,” he murmured after a while. “Perhaps the same is true of the heart.”

“For those who spend all their time in stoic silence at least,” Galahad agreed, grinning as Tristan moved to bite his earlobe.

“Rather than stringing up more impertinent remarks than arrows,” the scout growled, deciding it was about the right time to scoop Galahad up as if he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes, making to carry him off somewhere or the other with just as much delicacy.

“Perhaps I’d have more time to muck about with archery if I wasn’t so busy fencing off the line you leave unshielded at your back!” Galahad snorted, wriggling as Tristan made to hoist him over his shoulder in retribution.

They drew to an unbalanced standstill, Tristan finally setting him down, smile growing wry. He glanced toward Galahad’s arrow, straight and sure at the centre of the target.

“Oh no.” Galahad crossed his arms across his front. “Don’t even think about it.”

One corner of his mouth pulling further and further upward, Tristan slowly reached for the bow left by the wayside, an arrow nipped between his fore and middle finger. Tracing his tongue over his teeth, Tristan squinted an eye as he lined up the sight, purposefully deliberate.

“That arrow is more crooked than the tax collector,” Galahad huffed, fidgeting his weight this way and that. “Not a bloody chance.”

Upper lip snagged in concentration, Tristan let loose the string, the arrow whipping forward, tip sailing straight into Galahad’s without a hairsbreadth between them.

“Matched equal,” Galahad grumbled, doing a poor job of concealing his amusement as Tristan raised an eyebrow.

From the corner of his eye, Galahad saw his own arrow wilt, slowly sip from its position, then finally hit the dirt below with a rather concluding thud. He sighed. Tristan winked.

“Nothing a bit of practice won’t fix,” he said lightly, slinging an arm over Galahad’s shoulders. “Same time tomorrow?”

Galahad was near tempted to trip him by the ankle as Tristan grinned all the way back to his quarters, had the taller knight not been leaning heavily enough to take them both over had he tried. At the doorway to his bedchamber, Tristan leant down to kiss him, nearly losing his footing regardless when Galahad licked ravenous into his mouth, all fingers and nods and moans.

Limbs meshed together, Tristan carried him over the threshold, laughing as Galahad’s boots knocked unbidden into an ill-placed stack of wood for the fireplace, the clatter echoing over the stone floor. Galahad kicked the door shut in their wake.

“Count on it.”

-


End file.
